


Whumptober 2020 No. 1

by Sapless_Tree



Series: MacGyver Whumptober [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, Confused Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Drugged Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Gen, Hanging, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Waking up Restrained, Whump, Whumptober 2020, macgyver whump, no. 1 - Freeform, sfw, shackled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapless_Tree/pseuds/Sapless_Tree
Summary: Whumptober no. 1 "Let's Hang Out Sometime"Prompt: waking up restrained, shackled, hangingMac forced his eyes back open, not remembering having closed them in the first place.‘Concussion?’He wondered, but couldn’t feel much more than a dull ache in his head. Was it drugs or an injury? Both? Mac couldn’t tell, but he knew he had to start thinking of a way out. Where was everyone?
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: MacGyver Whumptober [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999582
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Whumptober 2020 No. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna do a few whumptober prompts here n there. I want to do all of the prompts, but since I’m gonna do some stuff with my OCs, those wont be posted here.  
> Anywho, enjoy!

The first thing that MacGyver became aware of when he roused was the dull aching in his arms and shoulders. Next, the muted stinging in his wrists and the weight of his own body. Mac, with no small effort, forced his heavy eyelids open-- it took a few tries as the first few garnered useless fluttering. But eventually, he was half-lidded, only awake enough to see fuzzy shapes and blurred colors. 

Mac was standing, his toes just barely touching the floor as his arms were cuffed up over his head. The stinging in his wrists was from where the cuffs cut into his flesh. Blood was dripping down his arms.

“H’llo…” Mac slurred out. His mouth was uncooperative, tongue feeling thick and useless in his dry mouth. He blinked slow and hard a few times, trying to clear his vision as he lifted his head off his chest. “Jack…?” He called out raspily. It was only a few moments before Mac was too exhausted to keep his head up anymore; he let it loll back to his chest. 

No matter how many times Mac tried blinking away the blurriness of his sight, he could seem to shake the fuzzy edge everything had. 

_‘Drugged… maybe,’_ he thought. _‘Explains disorientation.’_

Mac forced his eyes back open, not remembering having closed them in the first place. _‘Concussion?’_ He wondered, but couldn’t feel much more than a dull ache in his head. Was it drugs or an injury? Both? Mac couldn’t tell, but he knew he had to start thinking of a way out. Where was everyone?

Forcing his head back up, Mac did his best to take stock of the room-- blurred grey walls swam into his vision, crates too. Who knew what was in those, but they didn’t matter so long as Mac couldn’t reach them. And off in the corner, there was a 2-gallon bucket of cleaning supplies. The rough concrete flooring caught his attention. _Basement._

Mac pushed himself up on his toes a bit to try and relieve some of the pressure on his arms. It worked for a brief moment, but when he lowered himself back down the cuffs dug painfully into his already broken skin. 

He let out a low groan. 

The cuffs didn’t tighten, however-- they were double-lock, then. That was good and bad news for him. The cuffs wouldn’t tighten and cut off circulation if he tried anything, but it also added an extra step when picking them. He needed something to pick them with first, though.

Looking around again, it seemed that anything helpful was too far out of Mac’s reach to get to. 

Someone really didn’t want him to get out. 

He let his head drop unceremoniously to his chest once again and slipped his eyes shut. His head was hurting worse, but he wasn’t sure of the cause-- exertion? Injury? Side effect of the drugs? 

Drugs-- that was it! An IV was how he got away from Murdoc’s torture room, if whoever had done this to him left an IV in, then--

Mac lifted his head to look up at his arms, blinking furiously against the fluorescent light on the ceiling. There was no IV. No puncture wound or any sign of a needle having stuck him at all. 

So much for that. 

Mac almost let his head back down, but the exposed ceiling of the basement caught his attention. His hands were cuffed to a metal support beam, but most of the ceiling was made of wood. 

He needed to get up there.

Mac pushed himself up again, the relief on his straining arms felt wonderful, but he knew it was about to get a whole lot worse. 

With a groan, Mac began to pull himself up by the arms. He only made it up about halfway with his agonizing pull-up before his body was shaking all over. Mac wasn’t even trying to conceal his noises of pain anymore, gasping and shouting with his slow progress.

Once his face was close enough to the ceiling he began searching it frantically; his vision was still too blurry to spot what he was looking for, so he settled on rubbing his face against the splintering wood. Something caught his cheek and cut it-- he’d found it. 

A stray air nail was sticking out of the wood. 

Mac yelled again as he pushed toward it, pulling the thing loose from the wood with his teeth. 

Thin nail in his mouth, Mac’s body dropped back to the ground. Mac grit his teeth on the nail and screamed past his closed mouth. White-hot pain shot through his arms and wrists with the sudden pressure. It left his whole body shaking violently and stray tears falling down his face on their own accord. He couldn’t drop the nail and scream properly-- he had to get it back up to his hands. 

He was sweating profusely. Everything hurt, but Mac mac pushed himself up once more, staying on the tips of his toes for several moments before finally beginning to pull himself up again. He kept his teeth clenched hard, but that didn’t stop the loud grunts of pain coming from him. Mac could feel the blood flowing down his arms go far enough to trickle down past his shoulder blades and onto his back. 

By the time he had lifted himself high enough to reach his hands, the blood dripped closer to his lumbar. His hands were shaking too bad to easily grab the air nail, and he couldn’t risk dropping it. 

Setting his jaw and taking a deep, resolved breath, Mac stabbed the nail into his palm. He screamed, this time throwing his head back and putting his everything into it. The force alone made him drop back down, only intensifying the pain as he writhed against it. 

Shaky, quick breaths came in bursts. Mac’s whole body was wracked with intense trembling. The pinprick of the air nail in his palm was the least of his worries, what with his wrists bleeding around the cuffs and focus wavering.

“Oka--okay… ‘kay…” Mac said to himself, his voice still terribly slurred. The adrenaline was helping, but he felt miserable nonetheless. He forced himself to breathe evenly as his head dropped down again. 

With a steadier hand (he still shook some, but he was less worried about dropping the nail), Mac pulled the air nail out of his palm and began picking the lock of the cuffs. One came undone, his hand immediately fell to his side, putting immense pressure on the one still shackled. 

Moaning in pain, Mac reached his free arm back up to take the air nail from his cuffed hand and undo that lock too. His whole body was able to drop heavily to the ground, and Mac reveled in it. He never thought he’d find dirty concrete so comfortable. 

He was content to just lie there, letting the room go back to mere blurred shapes and colors. His hand touched something wet. A puddle? Mac focused his eyes again. Not water, blood. His. Mac let out another noise, but it was less one of pain and more of a startled and annoyed moan. 

_‘Bleeding… bleeding is bad…’_ he thought. _‘Have to.’_ Have to what, again? _‘Go.’_ He had to go somewhere, he knew that. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Where was here? Basement, right, but where? Mac brought a hand to wipe blearily at his face-- it came back red with blood. Was his face injured or was it from where he’d stabbed his own hand? Maybe both, he couldn’t tell.

Another few moments of laying there, silently celebrating getting out of the cuffs ( _‘a normally easy and swift task,’_ his subconscious reminded, but he paid it no mind), then he was shifting to move again. 

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and forced his body the rest of the way up, staggering sideways a bit before righting himself again. Mac spun, checking the room for an exit-- why hadn’t he done that before?-- and the room spun with him. A door-- at the top of a flight of stairs. 

Stumbling the whole way, Mac clumsily made it over to the stairs. There were sounds coming from the other side of the door-- shouting, gunshots, and… _‘Jack?’_

Mac shook his head a bit as if trying to clear it and listen to the voices outside a bit more closely. The movement only made him dizzier and sent him staggering a bit to the left; he grabbed at the stairs’ railing, but missed the thing completely and toppled over, tripping over his own feet. He could definitely hear it now, though (or at least he was pretty sure he did). Jack’s voice was shouting for him. 

“Jack--!’ Mac called out the best he could. It came out long-drawn and drawled, and definitely not as loud as Mac had thought it would be. Getting to his feet again, Mac looked around for something he could open the door with-- or at least make a lot of noise trying. The crates still sat on the other side of the room, unopened. 

Mac blinked hard, willing his eyes and brain to stay focused long enough to walk across the room in a straight line. He began walking, eyes trained to the ground, watching his feet to make sure they remembered to go one after the other. He was wobbly and veered a bit as he made his way slowly across the room, but he was able to get there only stumbling a few times.

He put his hands on the crates, trying to pry off the lid with his bare hands. He only succeeded in pushing uselessly against the lid for a bit before he was looking around the room again. Leaning dangerously to the side, Mac pressed his hand flat against the crate for support, huffing and shaky. 

Mac noticed the basement’s water heater and felt his pockets for his swiss army knife. He almost laughed when he felt it still there. Mac sucked in another few breaths before forcing himself over to the water heater and shut off the gas valve. 

Letting himself slide to the floor, Mac could hear the gunshots still raining upstairs, but the voices were getting further away. _Was_ that them getting further away or his head getting cloudier? 

Mac pulled off the cover plate at the bottom of the water heater and turned the control valve off as well. After using his swiss army knife to disconnect the electronics and gas lines, he unscrewed the burner assembly and pulled it out completely. He flipped it around so the burner faced outwards, and pushed the mainline back into the gas control valve, plugging the electronics back in with the burner now accessible. 

Mac’s eyes drooped closed, cuts stinging and arms burning with exertion. He needed to hurry up-- the faster he was found the sooner it would be safe to sleep off the drugs. Slowly, Mac opened his eyes again, and clumsily made his way to the cleaning supplies. He pulled out the bleach, rubbing alcohol, and drain cleaner, then dumped the rest of the contents of the bucket onto the floor. 

He stumbled over to the stairs with the bucket, bleach, rubbing alcohol, and drain cleaner. Carefully he began to climb the stairs, going one step up every few seconds. It seemed to take forever, but when he was finally at the top, he set the bucket down and mixed the drain cleaner and bleach, swirling it around and trying not to breathe in the flammable toxic fumes he’d created. 

Using the rubbing alcohol, Mac poured a line of it from the bucket all the way back to the burner. There was just barely enough rubbing alcohol for his trail, so he poured out the rest of the bottle all around the burner. He turned on the control valve and waited a few moments. The gunshots were becoming few and far in between, but the distant, quiet shouting went on strong.

If his plan worked, he’d have to get behind something so as not to get caught in the blast-- the crates. 

_‘The space between the crates and the wall...’_ Mac thought sluggishly, _‘could hide behind those.’_

Mentally preparing himself, Mac switched on the gas valve and got behind the cates as quickly as he could, wedging himself in the small cramped space-- there was barely enough room. 

The burner lit, catching the rubbing alcohol on fire. The fire spread the whole way down the line of spilled rubbing alcohol, traveling up the stairs towards the bucket. Mac covered his ears as the fire heated up the toxic gas that the bleach and drain cleaner had created, causing it to explode and take the door off with it.

“Mac!” He heard someone shout. Loud footsteps on the wooden stairs followed after “Mac!”

 _‘It’s Jack…’_ Mac thought belatedly. _‘Say something.’_

“Jack... ‘m over… h’re…” Mac slurred, trying to push himself out from behind the crates. A pair of hands joined him, helping him from the spot he’d wedged himself.

“Hey, hey brother, there you are,” Jack said. Alarm bells went off in Jack's head at the blood coating the kid’s arms and his blown-wide pupils. The slurred speech and half-lidded eyes weren’t very promising either.

“What’d they do to you, Mac?” He asked, helping him stand.

Mac groaned at the movement, “drugs…”

“No kidding, bud,” Jack replied, gripping Mac a little tighter when he swayed. “We’re gonna start moving now, okay?”

Mac’s heavy eyes began to slip closed again, the adrenaline that he’d been relying on to catch his partner’s attention was all but gone. He was exhausted, sore, but most of all safe in Jack’s hold.

He let his head loll to his chest, ignoring Jack’s commands to lift it back up and stay awake. Mac’s eyes were fully closed, and he could barely hear Jack frantically talking to him.

But Mac knew he was safe now, Jack would make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> So how obvious is it that I don't actually know how a water heater works exactly??? Can you put a mainline in backward? maybe idk, but I'm not going to try that haha
> 
> Also, side note: I know chlorine isn't flammable (chlorine-based bleach was easiest to go with bc I'm lazy and didn't want to use something less reactive and have think of how to make that work without dragging the story downnn), so I'm kinda just hoping that whatever gas produced by mixing it with drain cleaner is flammable? Idk sorry (two years of advanced chem you think I'd know this by now lmaooo) the ambiguity of what kind of drain cleaner leaves it open to being a mix of a large assortment of possible chemicals to have been mixed with the chlorine (and obviously bleach does some funky stuff when mixed with anything) soooo... I'm calling bs science on this one but I did my best


End file.
